


Pressure Down Low

by gigantic



Series: Pressure Down Low [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Intercrural Sex, Los Angeles Kings, M/M, Manchester Monarchs, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/pseuds/gigantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting the call to play for the Kings is the first step in everything finally going right for Martin, but there's already a four to six-week time limit on it. Tyler makes it worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure Down Low

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to M and D for their help with this. This isn't part of the same universe as wearemany's [Rookies](http://archiveofourown.org/series/62736) series, but we started about talking about rookies winner-banging together, so that's why the similarity in jumping off point. Also, you should read that series if you haven't, because it's great. Rookies! Yeah!
> 
> All remaining errors are due to my failure as a human being.

Stolly and Erin spike their holiday party punch good, so Quickie kisses Williams under the mistletoe hanging at the mouth of the kitchen. Martin assumes the punch is at least partly to blame. He's standing with Nolan by the counter when the kiss happens, laughing on one side of Quickie and Williams as Vey and Tyler come up on the other, just as amused. 

"It's not funny. Those are the rules," Quickie says as he pulls back, grinning. Williams licks his lips and shakes his head like he's trying to clear it.

"Well," he says and pats Quickie's cheek as he steps aside. "Merry Christmas, buddy." 

Tyler and Vey shuffle around to let Williams pass back into the living room. 

"Quickie, man, how many glasses have you had already?" Tyler asks, stepping forward. He claps him on the back. 

"Don't worry about it," Quickie says, and then points at Tyler and Vey. "Uh oh." He points up to the mistletoe. 

They've managed to move just enough to find themselves under it. Vey snorts, turning away. Tyler's laugh is open-mouthed and throaty. His cheeks are rosy like he's had a few himself.

"You're gonna mess with tradition?" Quickie asks. 

"You think I'm scared?" Tyler counters.

"It's okay if you are."

"Veysey," Tyler says immediately, turning to touch Vey's shoulder and lean in, catching him on the mouth. It's fast, but it's a kiss, one that leaves Vey sputtering and laughing. 

"What the fuck!" he says.

Quickie holds out his glass to toast Tyler's. 

"Never scared," Tyler says, and then looks down into his own cup. "We actually came in here for a refill." 

"Careful on your way back out," Quickie says. 

Tyler scoffs, saying, "I'm ready for anything."

They don't even stick to the kitchen doorway after the first ten minutes. The game evolves from trying to lure teammates and spouses under the mistletoe to Tyler and Quickie convincing people to kiss them no matter where they're lounging. Martin manages to steer clear for a good hour, watching others get caught. 

He lets his guard down after too much eggnog. Muzz is describing some weird horror flick he watched on Netflix that gave him his first movie-related nightmare in years when Tyler slips right into the mix, wedging his body between them on the couch. 

"You guys are gonna help me catch up, right?" he says. "Quickie didn't get you yet?"

"Oh, hey, Toffee, we weren't having a conversation," Muzz says. 

"Sorry," Tyler says, but he doesn't look it, all teeth and a really healthy flush to his skin now. "Come on."

"Wow, you're demanding," Muzz says, but Tyler's already pushing his way closer, stealing one. Muzz practically giggles into it, shoving him back a second later. 

Tyler says, "That's twenty." 

He turns to Martin and raises his eyebrows. 

"What?" Martin asks. Tyler shrugs a shoulder. 

"Competition, Joner, you know."

He says it like it's the most logical thing in the world. His hand touches Martin's, poising for the pounce.

"I'm another number on your list, huh?" Martin says. Tyler rolls his eyes, but it makes him change tacts a little. He removes his hand and scoots closer instead, lifts his leg over Martin's. 

"Yeah, but lucky number 21," he says. He just keeps on coming, working his way nearer until he's practically in Martin's lap. "Help me out." 

"Hm." Martin's noncommittal about it.

Tyler's mouth quirks to the side. He says, "You want to be special?"

He goes from practically in Martin's lap to deliberately straddling his legs. Martin catches him at the waist on instinct. Muzz laughs again, slouching against the couch cushions. The sound draws Martin's eyes to him. That moment of distraction is all it takes for Tyler to capitalize, leaning in and catching Martin's mouth. It's slower than Martin might've anticipated. Tyler's lips are full and soft, and he takes his time, resting his arms on the cushions behind Martin as he tilts his head. He gasps when Martin bites at his bottom lip, trying to catch him off guard, but he's still got a smirk in place when he pulls back. 

"Never congratulated you well enough after your first win the other day," he says. Martin exhales. Beside them, Muzzin's still laughing. 

"Lucky me," Martin says, voice even.

Tyler cranes close again, but he doesn't try for another kiss. He moves to Martin's ear and says, "Twenty-one," softly before sliding back and off of him. "Thanks."

;;

Quickie wins the holiday party battle, but it's Martin who holds on for the shutout over the Islanders two nights later. It's guaranteed when Tyler's wrister gives the Kings some empty-net insurance with a minute left in the game. 

"Look at that fancy fucking home start!" Martinez says in the locker room, continuing the congratulations started on the ice before the reporters make it downstairs.

Martin takes a breath and weathers the commotion. He barely remembers any of the quotes he's given once people clear out and let him finish changing.

"How do you feel?" Vey asks when he's all set. 

Tyler's right behind him, saying, "Yeah, what's all that Hollywood spotlight like, star?"

"Makes me feel hungry," Martin says, standing and making sure he's got everything he needs. "I'm starving now."

"I hear that," Vey says. "Room service back at the hotel?" 

The Kings have put them up in separate hotel rooms for all the games in Los Angeles but all on the same floor. Martin volunteers his room because it's the furthest down the hall, letting Vey and Tyler drop off anything they need to in their rooms first. They order room service and hang out until Vey starts yawning.

"Uh oh, time to tuck Veysey in," Tyler says, reaching out to nudge Vey's leg from where he's draped along the bottom of Martin's bed. 

"Yeah, right. Like you're not the one asking me for bedtime stories," Vey says, but he does push off the bed to start shuffling toward the door. 

Tyler rises and follows after him. Martin sees them to door, saying, "I'll meet you guys in the lobby to go to practice in the morning." 

"Nine-thirty," Vey says and heads down the hall.

Tyler lingers just inside of Martin's door, his palm pressed against the paint. "Good game today."

"You, too."

The two words aren't meant to be anything in particular, but Tyler rocks forward like he's been prompted. Pushing into Martin's space, he finds his mouth for a kiss. It doesn't last nearly as long as the effort from the holiday party, tempered by exhaustion and sobriety, but Tyler takes advantage of the way he stuns Martin to make it more than a peck, too, coaxing him into kissing back. 

"Two in the win column now," Tyler says when he drops back on his heels again. "New count." 

He doesn't wait for Martin to respond, walking away right after. Martin steps out into the hall enough to watch him, his tie in one hand and using the other to run through his hair. 

;; 

Tyler is a cyclone. He has been since the day Martin met him, showing up right before the playoffs in Manchester with a smile that didn't quite match the way his eyes darted around the room, sizing everything up. 

It felt almost unexpected when Tyler's eyes snapped to him, even though Martin had been the one to walk over and hold out a hand, introducing himself. "I'm Martin."

"You're in goal," Tyler said, and Martin nodded. 

"Me and Jeff, yeah."

Tyler shook his hand and said, "Tyler. I'm here to score for you." 

It was only obnoxious until he made good on it, netting one in his first game. They didn't do so well in the postseason, but Tyler came to Manchester full-time a couple seasons later, undeniable. He wasn't the type to brag just to do it, but he basked when things paid off, crashing into teammates during the after-hours and saying things like, "Three-point night. What does that get me?" 

Martin heard a rumor once that one of the ways that question was answered involved Kozy. He never cared enough to wonder if it was true before now.

The Kings take the Canadiens 6-0 on the road. Tyler's grinning like the rest of the guys as he moves in to bump his helmet with Martin's at the end of the game, sealing two shutouts in a row and a third win on his third start.

"What do I get for this?" he asks, thinking it'll be funny, and then thinking maybe he should've kept that one bottled.

Tyler laughs.

"Don't know. We'll see," he says, already turning to skate toward the benches. 

Martin's forgotten about it by the time they've had a quick dinner and gotten on the plane. It's nowhere near his mind when he gets into his hotel room in Toronto, but there's a knock on his door 20 minutes later. Tyler's waiting on the other side. 

"Have you seen that movie 'The World's End' yet?" he asks. "It's part of the On Demand stuff here. I've been meaning watch it." 

"It's pretty late," Martin says but steps aside.

The movie's funny enough that they fight sleep to pay attention. Tyler yawns after laughing more than once, both of them stretched out on the bed. Martin pushes pillows against the headboard and leans back while Tyler curls on his side, angled enough to look past their feet and still see the TV. 

They settle in as they watch, Martin slumping down. Tyler somehow inches closer, erasing space between them until he lifts his head to scratch his neck in the middle of characters fighting in a public bathroom. When he drops again, his head lands on Martin's thigh.

Martin lets him stay there, blinking down at the back of Tyler's head. A crash in the movie catches his attention again, and Martin stares at the television, only half-absorbing the plot.

Five minutes later and Tyler sighs deeply, and Martin asks, "You're not falling asleep on me, are you?"

"Hm? No," Tyler says. He twists to look at him, hair fluffed. 

"Thought you were about to start snoring," Martin says, pressing into Tyler's back with his knuckles. 

"No way." He smirks. When he moves again, it isn't to resume his place watching TV but to kneel and turn his entire body toward Martin, crawling up the bed. 

Martin never thinks of Tyler as the kind of person with finesse until he does something to remind him. Usually that means on the ice, dangling defensemen or slipping through the neutral zone, but he does it here, too, watching Martin as he closes in and throws a leg over Martin's lap.

The left side of Tyler's shirt is rucked up, somehow caught on the waistband of his pants. Martin's thumb grazes skin, and Tyler's breath puffs across his lips. 

"See?" Tyler says. "I'm up."

It's not a line. Or if it is, it's a bad one, but Martin tilts his head anyway -- meets him in the middle. 

They slip more as they kiss, Martin working his way down until they're nearly flat on the bed, his hand in Tyler's hair. He lets Martin hold his head where he wants, almost caged, but Tyler's hips roll freely, in small and encouraging thrusts. 

It's a bad night to be up late. They have places to be early, but his body isn't concerned. Lazy arousal finds a spark, and Martin flips them around when Tyler reaches to undo his fly. 

He gasps from the sudden move, one hand fisted in the shoulder of Martin's shirt and the other braced against Martin's stomach. They freeze for a moment, watching. Martin's breaths have already started to shorten, and Tyler eyes him as he drags his finger back to the zipper. 

"What is this?" Martin asks. Not to challenge. Just so he knows.

Tyler says, "Another win."

It comes out quick, like it's a given. The zipper sounds loud, even with the commotion happening on TV. Tyler gets his hand inside Martin's underwear, cupping him. The angle's bad, but he still rubs a few times, watching Martin's face.

"Could use some help," Tyler says. That breaks whatever trance Martin's slipped into, and he works his own pants down enough for Tyler to free his cock. Tyler changed into sweats before coming over. They're simple enough to push past now.

They don't even kiss again at first, Tyler pausing to lick his palm, get it at least sort of wet. Martin does the same and mirrors Tyler's strokes, jerking him while Tyler looks up with hooded eyes. 

It's hard to stop watching him, trying to read what he might do next. Maybe it's habit. He's seen Tyler do it hundreds of times by now, eyes tracking, calm until he's ready to jump in and create something out of chaos. 

Martin can't guess what his intent is here, so he waits for a tell, like trying to choose the angle on a skater coming down the ice, but all Tyler says is, "This okay?"

His mouth parts easily when Martin ducks in. 

He moves down to kiss Tyler's jaw, his neck. Tyler swears, the sound harsh like he's speaking through gritted teeth, pushing the words against enamel.

He fists a hand in Martin's hair. It hurts a little, a counterpoint to the way the hand on his cock feels. There's nothing perfect about any of it, almost too much friction, both of them somehow simultaneously tired and frantic. The only ease comes when Tyler comes first, swipes his hand through the mess and uses it to finish Martin off, grip slicker. 

Martin drops all of his weight onto Tyler, who makes an "oof" sound but lets him stay. They're gross, but Martin's never really had big qualms about stuff like that. 

"I'm gonna sleep so well." Tyler yawning punctuates the sentence. Martin laughs and finally tips away, getting up to get something to wipe off with. 

He doesn't notice that the movie's nowhere near finished until he comes back from the bathroom cleaner. Tyler hasn't really moved at all, lying on his back with his pants still pushed down, cock soft. There's come on his t-shirt and stomach where the shirt stayed rucked up, and he doesn't look uncomfortable at all with his head turned toward the movie. 

Martin tosses a warm washcloth at him, earning Tyler's attention again.

"Thanks," he says and smiles. 

"Sure."

Martin's still wondering what the right follow-up is when Tyler sits upright and starts getting himself together. He stands and pulls up his pants, taking a couple extra swipes at his t-shirt with the cloth to make sure he's all set. 

"Good?" he asks, gesturing to his clothes.

Nodding, Martin says, "Yeah."

"I don't need anybody to catch a wrong glimpse in the hallway."

"You're going back to your room?"

"It's late, like you said." Tyler shrugs. "Gotta stay fresh. Especially you, two shutouts in a row guy."

"Luck. I was feeling good tonight."

"Yeah, right. Well, we need to keep that up for you," Tyler says, stepping in to pass back the washcloth. He lingers, tilting his face up. "Feel good?"

He's earnest, but he's not subtle. 

"Yeah."

"Good." Tyler smiles again and steps away. "'Night." 

;;

He does feel alright despite being awake later than planned. Thankfully, too, because Sutter gives him the nod for night two of the back-to-back. The break for lunch gets sort of swallowed up by quick visits with family for guys who're from the area. Most of Martin's relatives are still back in and near Vancouver, but he meets some new people or catches up with parents he knows from families seeing their games in Manch.

Tyler's dad always pats him on the shoulder solidly, asking him if he's shot up a few more inches. It's the first time both of his sisters have had a chance to see him play an NHL game, and they ask Martin what it's like for him, too, starting out strong. 

"We don't really have time to sit back and think about it." It may be a media soundbite, but it's true, too. 

"How's it with Tyler out there?" his mom asks. "The older guys are too nice, but you know us. You can tell us if he's like a kid in a candy store about being back."

"He's got more experience than the rest of us who got called this season," Martin says. "He's alright."

They're good people. They don't need to know about Martin slipping his hand into Tyler's underwear the other night. 

Tyler knocks on his door when his family drops him off at the hotel after dinner. A third period surge means five straight wins for the team and a 4-0 start for Martin. Tyler's also collected another point of his own for assisting Clifford's goal. 

"Hey," he says, crowding Martin's space as he comes inside the hotel room. "Four, huh?"

He doesn't even wait for Martin to respond, curving his hand along the back of Martin's neck and guiding him close. They make out against the wall, a series of languid, thorough kisses like the hours have caught up with them.

It lasts until Tyler says, "Pause, pause. Sit down."

He kneels on the floor while Martin sits on the desk chair, covering the length of Martin's cock until his mouth meets his hand wrapped around the base. Tyler's hair is damp under Martin's fingers, but he smells like soap instead of post-game sweat. That detail trips up his brain for some reason, like it's easier to let that get stuck on a loop instead of focusing too much on Tyler playing with his balls.

He's suddenly grateful that Tyler hadn't done this the night before, the memory of it fresh as Martin talked to his mom and dad.

Tyler's moan is more of a hum, enough vibration in it that Martin exhales roughly, thigh muscle twitching. He can sense a smile in the way Tyler looks up at him, confirmed when he pulls back and grins fully. 

"Do you like it real wet or no?" he asks.

"Uh."

"Sometimes people are picky." Tyler shrugs as he says it. 

Martin wonders if he means in general, like a thing he's heard, or that people have been picky with him. He says, "I, uh. I don't care."

"Okay," Tyler says, and, "You can come in my mouth," right before resuming.

He only takes his hand off Martin's cock to reach down and undo his own pants. Martin can't see Tyler jerk himself off and wishes, suddenly, that he could, slipping down in the seat like changing angle in any way could at all help. It doesn't, but Tyler's mouth on him is still more than enough. He stays true to his word, too, sucking harder when Martin warns him minutes later.

He doesn't swallow. Martin comes, and Tyler waits until he sags after, breathing in deep, and then goes to the bathroom. Martin hears the faucet turn on and then off, and Tyler's pants are still undone when he reappears, cock not entirely tucked in and still obviously hard. He sits right on Martin's lap, not hesitating for a second. 

"Come on," Tyler says, pushing his hips forward in small, needy pumps. "Please."

If he's not going to pause, then Martin won't either. He pushes at the front of Tyler's pants, getting a hand around his cock. Tyler cranes in close as Martin brings him off, touching his face when he kisses him. His fingertips are wet from the bathroom sink, slipping along Martin's jaw. 

;;

The problem with tripping into this kind of -- routine, really, feels like the wrong word -- habit, sure. Falling into this kind of habit means Martin doesn't know how to respond on the days when things don't go their way. Streaking makes everything seem easy. A win in Ottawa means Tyler holds his hands behind his back when he blows Martin in a Chicago hotel room that night, encouraging him to fuck his mouth. 

Then they drop the game to the Blackhawks the next night. 

Martin isn't even in net for it, and Tyler wasn't on for any of the goals against, but he didn't help get anything on the scoreboard either. Everybody's quieter on the flight, exhausted from the road trip and the loss, and Martin doesn't know what to say about any of it, so he plays cards with Muzz and doesn't.

The one time he goes to the bathroom, he looks for Tyler but sees him propped against the window, head lolling. He's asleep. 

Tyler's hair is still awkwardly pushed up on one side when they land in LA. Vey's the one who says something about how he looks as the three of them walk through the airport. He touches Tyler's cheek and says, "Dude, you have a sleep indent on your face."

Tyler runs his hand over it. "Maybe it looks like a scar from far away. That would be cool."

"No way," Vey says. "Jonesy, tell him."

Tyler blinks in Martin's direction, looks at him for what feels like the first time all night. Martin says, "Sorry." 

"You guys suck," Tyler says, but he's sort of smiling. He yawns. "I'm gonna pass out. I'm wrecked."

"You and the rest of us," Vey says. 

They're all drowsy on the car ride home. Tyler dozes in the backseat, stumbling when he has to get out at the hotel, the closest thing to homebase any of them have for now. The restaurant is still open, so Vey ditches them to order food before heading up to their rooms. 

Tyler props himself in the corner of the elevator, groaning sleepily. Martin stands against the far wall and watches him let his bag droop at his feet. He's not expecting Tyler to say, "I played like shit."

"You had some looks."

"Most of them missed."

It's a weird place to leave it, but nothing Martin wants to say really fits. He's still thinking about the fading crease in Tyler's skin more than the game.

As they exit onto their floor, Martin matches Tyler's lazy pace, quiet until Tyler starts fumbling around for his room key. While he's digging, Martin says, "You could drop your stuff and come hang out."

"Huh?" Tyler says.

"Maybe they released some new movies to order while we were gone."

Tyler's hands have stopped moving on his bag. He says, after a second, "I'm pretty tired." 

"Right," Martin says. "Never--"

"As long as you're not surprised when I pass out five minutes into whatever you turn on."

"Sure. Yeah, I don't care."

"Okay." 

Martin goes to his room and takes off his suit, putting on a fresh sleep t-shirt. Tyler doesn't take long to turn up at his door, and Martin stops flipping through the TV menu to let him in.

There aren't any new movies, so he switches to HBO and leaves it.

"Is this that 'Eastbound & Down' show?" Tyler asks, settling on the bed. He lies out with an arm curled behind his head.

Martin says, "I think so."

"I've only seen part of an episode before."

Martin's never seen it, though Andreoff used to talk about it in Manch sometimes, subjecting everybody to his Kenny Powers impression. It's kind of funny, enough to draw a few thick, fatigued laughs from them. Tyler wasn't lying. He's already curling inward ten minutes later and slowly drifting off. 

"Hey," Martin says, touching his arm. "Get under the blankets if you're cold." 

"I'm fine." The words are more of a single mumbled sound than a short sentence. 

"Then lift so I can."

Tyler groans but does get under the blankets, scooting in tighter and pulling the comforter up so high it covers part of his chin. Martin turns out the light and lowers the TV volume. 

He's not sure when he falls asleep, but he's startled awake again by someone hollering on TV. 'Eastbound' has turned into some prison documentary. Tyler's pressed up against Martin's side, one hand curled around his forearm. He has to move away to reach for the remote, making Tyler frown in his sleep. 

Once the television's off, Martin can barely see Tyler's face at all, but he wipes his fingertips across Tyler's brow anyway, like he can smooth it out himself. 

"Hm?" Tyler says, more automatic than actually alert.

Martin says, "Nothing. I'm turning stuff off. Sleep."

"I am." 

Martin might give him shit for the whine in his voice if he was really awake, but for now he half-smiles in the dark, amused, and then turns over. He lies with his back to Tyler, re-working the groove in his pillow. It's not even a minute before he feels Tyler close in on him, tucking his head against Martin's spine.

;;

Not asking about the rumors means Martin's never really gotten a hold on how anything works for Tyler. Sometimes he was dating Taylore, and sometimes he might've been sleeping with O'Neill or Kozy or someone else, and sometimes all of those things may have been happening at the same time. 

He grabs lunch with Nolan and Muzz after a workout -- fish tacos at Muzzin's favorite spot since he moved into the neighborhood. Nolan douses his in hot sauce and asks, "You ready to go back in tomorrow?"

"If Darryl says so, yeah," Martin says. 

"You know he will," Muzz says. "You're hot right now. So hot." 

"Probably making Quickie nervous," Nolan says, laughing as he wipes his fingers on a napkin. 

"Not a chance," Martin says. 

"You talked to him at all?"

Martin shakes his head. "Quickie? Not really. Just at Jarret's party." 

They have each other's numbers from training camps, know each other in a very top level way for the same reason. Quickie hadn't kissed him during his holiday match with Tyler, but he'd hugged Martin in the living room, eyelids drooping and smile crooked from multiple glasses of red wine. 

"Nice fucking way to pop the cherry, man," he'd said. "Speared by Perry and everything."

A week and a half later and still none of it feels too real yet. 

Martin says, "I'm just trying to ride it out while it lasts."

"You'll be back," Muzz says as brazen as ever about discussing moves. "After this? You're coming back. Toff is gonna stick around. Vesey's good."

"I love having more of you guys up from Manch," Nolan says. 

Muzz nods. "We're taking over slowly, eh? Infesting everything."

"Speak for yourself on the pest stuff."

"That's half your identity!" Muzz says, indignant, but Nolan rolls his eyes and doesn't give him an inch.

Martin laughs, settling back in his seat and drinking his Sprite. Swallowing, he says, "It's only really new for me and Vey, though. Since Ty was around a lot for a while."

"He was good, too," Nolan says. "Man, that guy."

"He said Carter helped him out a lot. Not a bad mentor," Martin says.

Muzzin says, "It's crazy how easy he makes stuff look sometimes. Jeff, you know? Toff is like mini-Carts." 

"Andreoff said they were really close, though. I don't know."

"What, you mean, like, _close_ close?" Nolan says.

"I don't know about that," Muzzin says, having trouble speaking and laughing around a mouthful of tortilla and meat. He gets himself together. "Wasn't Taylore out here with him for a while last year?"

"But you know how Toff is," Nolan says. "If it did happen, I'll never get how he manages it all the time with people."

"Pure scorer," Muzzin says and laughs at his own joke. 

Martin chuckles and shakes his head, shrugging. Maybe everything he's heard has been bullshit.

;;

It's not the kind of question Martin can bring up at any time. He's not going to say something in the middle of a morning skate, but after Sutter does give him the nod, and they shut out Edmonton, Tyler comes to his room that night. He slips his hand into Martin's underwear before they even get the door fully closed. Alone is probably a perfect time to ask, and asking could resolve the confusion easily.

Instead, they fool around until they both come on Tyler's stomach. Martin drops forward, and Tyler just spreads his legs wider, accommodating him as he asks, "Did you ever hook up with Eberle?" 

"What?"

"I was wondering after the game, when he came to talk to you," Tyler says, clarifying. "You played World Juniors with him, right?"

"Yeah," Martin says with his mouth smashed against Tyler's neck. They didn't get intense enough to work up a real sweat, but Tyler's skin feels a little damp from the body heat. It makes Martin wonder how hard he'd have to work to leave Tyler panting. "But we never did anything."

"Nothing at all?" Tyler sounds sort of surprised. 

"He's been with the same girl for forever, it seems like." 

"I don't think I knew that."

"He said they're finishing a new house for them and everything."

"Wow, that's --"

"What?" Martin lifts his head enough to find Tyler's eyes.

"Nothing," Tyler says, purposefully dropping whatever he'd been about to say or getting distracted from it, eyes scanning Martin's face. "Permanent."

Martin nudges Tyler's side. "What made you ask about him?"

The smirk on Tyler's face seems simultaneously embarrassed and amused. He says, "I don't know. He kind of seemed like your type." 

"What's my type?"

"Probably like -- good, hardworking, collected. Like you, or something." Tyler chuckles, seemingly laughing at himself more than anything. "Nice guys."

'What are you?' Martin wants to ask but can't quite get the words to order themselves the way he thinks them. He shifts until he can touch both hands to Tyler's cheeks, dipping in to kiss him. The chasteness of it doesn't last longer than a few moments. Martin tugs at Tyler's bottom lip with his teeth lightly, and Tyler lets him in, kissing until Tyler's hips start to lift, getting Martin to move with him. 

There are easier ways to get off. They don't have to stick to rocking against each other on a hotel bed, kissing like someone might interrupt them before they get the chance to finish, chasing friction. Martin doesn't need to pin Tyler to the mattress, but Tyler lets him, murmuring, "Yeah, yeah," and "come on, Joner" in the spaces between kisses until Martin's mouth feels raw from it, until they both come a second time. They only make the mess on their bellies worse.

;;

Zatkoff texts him on Wednesday, writing, "Glad you stuck it out now? Good wins."

He gets the message outside of a Target, the sun's glare making the screen harder to see until he turns his body. It's warm out. A few weeks ago Martin was in New Hampshire, spending another season waiting to see if anything came next, and now he hasn't worn his winter coat since they got back from Chicago. 

It wasn't like he and Zats played rock-paper-scissors to decide who'd stay in LA and who'd go. Having security in net was good for the franchise but unlucky for everyone logjammed down the pipe; it wasn't a secret. Zats had given Martin a heads up when he decided to leave, but he'd arrived at the decision on his own.

Martin came close to trying his luck elsewhere too, and now elsewhere he might not be 6-0 and getting the shot he's craved. Not that, not anything that's come with it. 

He dials Zats back. When the line picks up, Martin says, "I'm walking around in a t-shirt right now."

"Fuck you, it's freezing in Pittsburgh," he says. Martin can hear the smile in his voice.

"But you're into it, right? You're their guy this season."

"Their other guy."

"But the regular other guy," Martin says, pressing the point.

Zats hums and says, "They call me Tishy." 

"What is that about?" 

"It's Russian, I guess. Sort of. Means quiet." 

Martin laughs roundly, ignoring the look he gets from a stranger walking into the store at the same time as him. "They don't know about you and karaoke yet."

"I don't want to blow the mystery for them."

"So, you're liking it out there?"

"Mhm. It still blows my mind that I'm playing behind those guys," Zats says. "How's LA?"

"It's not bad. One second you're not sure if you'll get the call, and then --"

"And with the start you've had," Zats says. "Are they throwing another contract at you yet?"

Martin smiles softly. "Still waiting on that one." 

"Any perks at all? I was thinking about Cliche's story about hanging out on the rooftop bar."

Martin laughs, recalling it, too. He says, "No, we don't even have time for anything. I mean, I'm sure you know. It's probably the same for you. It's work and when it isn't, I'm still around the team. Me and the other Manch guys haven't really explored."

"It's you and one of the newer guys, right? And Toffee."

"Pears was here, yeah, but he's back down again. Vey's still up, and, yeah, you remember Ty."

"Who wouldn't?" Zats says. "Is he still like he was?"

"He's, uh." Martin says, thinking, well, Tyler's complicated. "He's good. We've been around each other a lot lately."

"I guess that like Slava and Kinger -- those guys have been up a lot longer. Maybe they don't even remember what it's like to be in Manchester."

"Completely Hollywood. Disgusting," Martin says, carrying the joke along. He fusses with his hat, tugging the brim down needlessly. "But, no, it's more about, um. Do you remember that story with Kozy? Him and Ty after that IceCaps trip?"

"What, was there a sequel on the west coast with someone else?" Zats asks.

Martin says, "No, but we kind of hooked up." 

Zats laughs, asking, "Are you shitting me? Joner, that's -- can you even keep up with that?"

It's the sort of question he's been trying not to ask himself. He says, "Yeah, I don't know." He feels exposed and foolish, but he laughs softly, too. "I don't know."

" _How_?" Zats clears his throat, tries to regain all his calm. "I don't need details, but how does that happen? That's not usually your speed." 

Martin's never gone out of his way to lie about his preferences, but he doesn't go out of his way to share either. Zats is one of the few guys who knew from the second Martin came to the team, knew about the three people he'd dated and let go of, ribbing him between relationship two and three by saying his penchant for serial monogamy would at least make heartbreak short-lived. 

"It wasn't intentional," Martin says. He has yet to figure out how much of anything about Tyler is deliberate versus random luck and the sheer audacity to try, but he hadn't been aiming for this. 

"Look at you," Zats says. "You get the call, start trying to set records for wins and get into trouble immediately."

"I'm driven."

Zats snorts in his ear, near-giggling. "God, I almost wish I was there to see it."

Martin's glad he isn't. It's probably ridiculous to see from an outside point of view. He feels goofy enough as it is. He says, "Right, because I don't know what the hell I'm doing."

"Like any of us do," Zats says.

;;

Martin was fifteen the first time he kissed another guy. He and Grassi hung around after practice to collect pucks and guarantee that everything that needed storing made it to the right shelves. They were the last two guys on the team still hanging around the locker room when they finished, and Martin didn't know if the feeling he'd had about them all month was for real until Grassi sat down in the stall next to him and leaned his way. 

Grassi left without saying anything after. Martin only let it fly for a day before he got Grassi alone and asked him out.

He knows himself well now. He isn't usually the guy to be forward, but Martin isn't shy about taking an opportunity when it's presented. 

Tyler earns the primary assist on Marty's opening goal, and then scores one of his own before the period finishes that ends up being the winner. Martin can tell he's buzzing from it after the game, face split in a smile from the second the final horn sounds.

"Want to hang out?" Tyler asks, standing in front on Martin's stall and looking down at him for a change. He shifts his weight back and forth, restless.

"Yeah."

Back at the hotel, Martin sucks him off on the bed, pushing at Tyler's thigh with one hand while his underwear hangs from one of his ankles. He seems to make more and more noise each time they do this, encouraging Martin and cursing at nothing interchangeably. Before he comes, Martin pulls off and strokes him the rest of the way, swiping his thumb through the mess on Tyler's belly once he's spent.

"Hey, you should come up here," Tyler says, breathless. Martin works his way along the mattress to kiss him.

He's achingly hard, his cock grazing Tyler's skin not enough to satisfy. Martin rocks against him, trying for something more firm, and Tyler beckons him even higher, opening his mouth as Martin straddles his chest and jerks off. It's lucky that Martin leans forward to brace a hand against the wall before he orgasms hard, undone by the sight of Tyler's mouth messy with his come. He drags his cock across Tyler's lips lightly, just taking in the sight, and Tyler sucks the head into his mouth like he wants whatever might be left, wants to make Martin shiver. 

In the morning, his skin feels tacky, his body's exhausted despite the sleep. Tyler looks equally rough, stretching his arms and legs out as long as they'll go. He murmurs, "We're disgusting." 

"Should get in the shower," Martin says, agreeing. 

"Yeah." Tyler pushes out of bed first. Martin watches him go, naked and shameless. He turns around in the mouth of the doorway and says, "You're not coming?"

"Oh." Martin's eyebrows raise for a moment, and then he furrows them. "Really?"

Tyler lifts one shoulder and turns around, leaving the door wide open. 

They don't pretend like they only have intentions of getting clean. The shower tiles are cold at his back when Tyler pushes him against the wall. Martin opens his mouth for him without hesitation, sliding their tongues together as he trails a hand down Tyler's spine and over his ass. He doesn't have any specific target, but it seems a waste not to wander closer to center, pushing between and dragging a fingertip over Tyler's hole just to feel how he reacts. 

The spray of the water echoing in the small space softens the edges of Tyler's gasp, Martin's name threaded through it. He keeps trying to kiss until Martin pushes the tip of his finger inside. Tyler's breath hitches, and he drops his head to Martin's collarbone.

He can't even move much at this angle. It's not at all ideal, but he works in and out as much as he can, teasing slowly. Tyler tucks his face against Martin's neck. He works his hips and rides Martin's finger until he comes, and then pushes at Martin's shoulders. 

"Slide down some," he says, and Martin does, sinking along the tile. He only stops when Tyler tells him, knees bent, and Tyler circles Martin's cock with hand, guiding him between his legs.

"Jesus, Ty."

"It works," Tyler says, though that's not Martin's point. "I don't have a condom in here, so --"

"Fuck."

"Go for it. Move."

Martin does, almost careful about it. He relaxes as he finds a flow, gradually thrusting with more intent. Tyler tilts his head, closing the gap to kiss Martin as he fucks the tight, wet bracket of Tyler's thighs. 

He moans, and Tyler's smile interrupts how well making out was working for them. Martin opens his eyes to see it instead of getting the feel, Tyler showing teeth and trying to blink away droplets of water clinging to his lashes.

"What's wrong?" Martin asks.

He's stopped moving his hips, hands resting lightly against Tyler's sides. Tyler shakes his head and tries to bring his legs a little tighter, an emphasis. "Just thinking maybe we should've gotten out, anyway."

A groan slips from Martin as he drops his head back, thrusting. Tyler devotes himself to the skin at Martin's neck again. Bruising will form if Martin doesn't say anything, but he's too close to coming to really think about much else, pushing for release. The water rinses away all traces.

"Told you," Tyler says. 

His skin's flushing from the warmth of the shower, but he's smiling, leaning in to kiss along Martin's jaw. He reaches for the small bottle of hotel body wash and works up a lather while Martin regains his composure, watching water slide over Tyler's skin. 

They wrap themselves in the hotel bathrobes when they get out, Tyler stretching out on the bed. The belt is so loosely tied that it starts to pull apart almost immediately, just barely holding together at Tyler's midsection. 

Martin kneels on the bed. "Now you're tired again."

Tyler shrugs against the mattress and reaches out to tug at Martin's robe, reeling him in. He gets what he wants, Martin stretching out on his back beside him. It feels stranger than usual. Martin's more used to fooling around at night and going to sleep, to having something to immediately distract them the next day. He's at a loss in the light of the morning, both of them alert and without any pressing obligations. 

Tyler says, "I found a house." 

"What? Really?" Martin turns his head toward him.

That's a bold move when the Kings didn't even have him start the season with the club after all. 

"You know, to rent, not buy, but yeah. I could wait for the summer, but that's what I did last year, and --" Tyler hooks one of his legs over Martin's absently, his ankle sliding along Martin's calf. "O'Neill's half a step away from moving Wealer into my room in Manch." 

"You think this is it."

"I'm hoping," Tyler says. "Maybe it's stupid, but you know, maybe not. We're doing well. There was a place I liked, so."

"Hermosa?"

"Mhm." Tyler turns onto his side and props himself on his elbow. "You want to see it?" 

;;

Martin hadn't been anticipating taking a ride along the PCH today, but that's how things turn out. They have lunch with Veysey first before he has to head to the airport, the latest to be sent back down to Manchester. 

"I wasn't missing snow yet," Vey says, and Tyler nudges his arm.

"I'll have a room ready for you when you come back," Tyler says. "Pears, too."

"Yeah, if it happens."

Tyler's vehement when he says, "It's happening. They want us. You know it. Dean said he's happy with what he's seen, right?"

"He was positive, yeah," Vey says, getting ketchup on his fingers from his burger. He shrugs as he licks them, and he doesn't look devastated. It's business. They all know it. No one's hoping for a trade or for someone who's been up to get sent down, but that's what it comes down to. 

After they part ways, Martin rides with Tyler to stop by TSC so that Tyler can drop off a couple things he wants to have ready for morning skate. From there, he reclines the passenger seat in Tyler's rental and looks at clouds while they drive to the new house.

"Richie told me about how his place came furnished, and so I looked for a spot like that," Tyler says as they walk up to the door. "Not everything. I can add stuff if I want, but there are essentials already in. Couch, table -- you know."

"Shoes off at the door?" Martin asks, crossing the threshold.

"You know it."

It's a two-bedroom, with more windows on the side facing the water. The place isn't right on the beach, but when they go up to the roof, there's still a good view of the ocean. Sunset is still an hour or so away, but the light has tipped west enough that the sun draws long pools of light across the floor inside. 

"This is the only one that's fully empty," Tyler says, showing Martin the bedroom last. 

He stretches his arms out wide, like he's trying to reach from one corner to another. Hardwood floors let him spin around on socked feet to face Martin.

"What do you think?" he asks. "California king bed, right? There's enough room."

"You don't need that much mattress," Martin cuffs him on his head lightly, and Tyler ducks to flee his grasp. 

"Hey, hey," he says. "Don't call me a shorty." 

"You said it, not me." 

Tyler sits down on the floor and stretches out, starfishing. "Right here. I already ordered the bed." 

Martin steps forward to nudge with his feet, tucking his toes underneath Tyler, high against his thigh. He can feel the muscle flex against his foot. Tyler tugs on his pant leg, squinting upward, and Martin kneels down to join him. 

"Bed right here, huh?" 

"It's the best spot," Tyler says, resting his knuckles against Martin's leg. "And big so there's room for company. Duh."

"Obviously."

Tyler pushes himself upright. He presses his palm against Martin's chest, and Martin collapses back slowly, obliging him. Tyler leans in, kisses him, and slides across Martin's body and onto the hardwood, figuring out how he wants to fit. Martin touches the back of his neck, holding him steady. He slips his middle finger back and forth over Tyler's hairline. 

The sun's splashed all over them, making the room feel warmer than the temperature outside. Tyler doesn't try to escalate it. He sneaks a hand under Martin's shirt but his grip is loose, more a comfort than a request. It's confusing, because it makes Martin think of how easy it would be to let all afternoons grow lazy here, exactly what he shouldn't be thinking. 

Tyler rests his forehead against Martin's shoulder. They just lie there, limbs tangled. Martin keeps his left arm curled around Tyler, eyes turned to the ceiling as Tyler says, "I want to be able to move in here right after Christmas."

Martin's not even sure if he'll still be around after the holidays. Tyler might be betting on the best possible scenario, but the trainers have already bumped up Quickie's return to "any day now." A win streak is only worth so much up against roster limits. 

Not that Martin's issue matters for what Tyler's trying to do. 

He says, "It's a nice place." 

"I feel alright in it," Tyler says, squirming, and then lifting his phone above them. "Happy face." 

He snaps a picture and tucks the cell away without reviewing it. 

They lie immobile long enough that Martin's eyes get heavy. Wood floors aren't the best for napping, but his limbs feel heavier anyway, lulled by the sun and the distant sounds of the ocean. Tyler's fingertips slide around beneath Martin's shirt, fanning over his belly like another reason to stay where he is. He's drowsy until Tyler's phone vibrates, the buzz of it resonating against the floor and pushing away the fog. 

"Mm, okay. Come on. Let's get out of here," Tyler says, shifting away.

Yeah. They should beat traffic.

;;

"How's the new boyfriend? Made him honest yet?" Zats texts him the next morning.

Martin showers and brushes his teeth before he answers, typing, "Still trying to decide on the ring."

Zats sends him a few pictures of ugly class rings. Martin texts him back to tell him how awful a friend he is these days. 

"Who else will put you through it?" is the reply, complete with three smiley faces. Zats only uses smileys to be a smartass. 

Tyler isn't his boyfriend, because they've just been fooling around for two weeks. They aren't dating, because it would probably be the most ill-advised move Martin could make now that he's finally gotten the shot he's been waiting three and a half years for. 

Darryl asks if he's ready to go during the morning skate. He says, "Colorado took us into overtime 0-0 the last time they played here. You ready for that?"

There's always something to Darryl's tone, like he's not asking if Martin wants to but if he can trust him. It's enough to make him push other concerns aside.

"Yeah. Yeah, absolutely," he says. 

"Okay." Darryl's mouth forms a perfect rainbow curve as he considers the answer. "Alright, you want to be the guy, you're the guy."

The nonchalant agreement strikes Martin like a challenge. He starts making a list of everything else he needs to prepare for the game. All the beat reporters ask him about tying the record set by a man Martin doesn't know anything about. Thankfully, they don't seem to expect any glorious answers. He stitches together something respectful and vague. 

Going through the rhythms of game day help him get into the right zone. Tyler doesn't even ruin it until they're heading out of the practice facility. 

He moves in close as they exit the building, quietly saying, "Maybe make it eight so you can try putting me right where you want when you finger me." 

Martin doesn't respond, but he can't help how his eyes widen. Tyler's mischievous expression sticks with Martin through puck drop.

It takes a shootout to come out on top. Even knowing ahead of time that overtime was a possibility with the Avalanche, he still gets more nervous during the extra minutes. He has to stop all three shooters at the very end, but at least this game doesn't need extra innings. 

Tyler makes a bunch of noise about how he's so tired as they all change in the locker room. Damn, the Avs are brutal. God, afternoon games are rough. Muzz says a group of them should grab food together, but Tyler says, "Dude, I'm napping. I'll just get room service later."

"You're so lame," Muzzin says. "Jonesy, you coming?"

"Uhh," Martin says, but Tyler is busy pulling on his button-down, not looking in his direction. "Yeah, okay."

As he's hanging up his gear, Martin gets a text. It's from Tyler. He's written, "really am napping, but I'll find you. didn't forget" 

Martin doesn't bother looking in Tyler's direction. He gathers his stuff and leaves with Muzz, joining him, Slava, Noly, and Kinger for late lunch. He ends up at Muzzin's for a while, playing XBox and losing a lot. He's terrible at first-person shooter games, but it's fun to talk shit with Muzz for a while, chirping him since he isn't significantly better. 

He has no idea what hour it is when his phone buzzes a couple times, but the sun's fully set. Martin wipes potato chip salt from his fingers to see that it's Tyler again. 

The message reads, "You're not in your room?" 

The follow-up: "Awake, lonely. come fuck meee"

There's a sad face to punctuate the second text. The emoticon is way too innocent for what it accompanies. He tries to play the game some more, but after 15 minutes he's still thinking about Tyler, so he sets his controller down and stands. 

"I'm gonna go back to the hotel," he says. 

"Already?" Muzz asks. "You need a ride?"

"Nah, I'll have a car come get me. It's okay."

He doesn't bother going to his room at all when he gets to the hotel, just stops at Tyler's and knocks. Tyler opens the door grinning, hair still mussed from his nap, and he pulls Martin in and kisses him. 

It shouldn't be this simple, Martin thinks, but he can't immediately think of a reason why not. Tyler's sheets smell like him, like the cologne he prefers. The scent's already familiar from playing with Tyler for a couple years, but Martin realizes it's now also easy to recognize in this specific situation -- lying on his back with Tyler crowding his space.

Though this isn't how he pictured this on his ride over here. Martin scratches his nails against Tyler's side and says, "I thought I'd get to put you where I want. That was the proposition."

"Make a fucking move, then," Tyler bites back.

Martin doesn't need a second invitation. He rolls them, spreading Tyler out and taking off his pants. Without worrying about Vesey staying next door or likely turn up looking to hangout, Tyler can moan as much as he wants when Martin slicks his fingers and works him open. 

He watches Tyler's face as he does, taking note of which speeds and little movements make his mouth fall slack. Martin fingers him, simultaneously grinding his own hips against the bed to take off the edge. He keeps at it until Tyler starts pawing at his shoulders, whatever he can reach, silently demanding.

"Don't make me beg," he says.

Martin withdraws his fingers. "Can't have that."

Tyler tells him where to find the condoms. He watches openly while Martin rolls it on and uses more lube. Pushing his knees farther apart, Martin situates himself and works inside, not fully ready for how tight Tyler feels around him.

With their bodies flush, Tyler says, "This is -- holy shit. I've never actually done this before." 

"Are you serious?" Martin asks, almost jerking out, but he catches himself and remembers that that might not be the most comfortable strategy. " _Now_ you tell me that."

"What? It's not a big deal," Tyler says and grits his teeth as he tries to move his hips a little, testing. "But so you'll, you know."

"What the hell, Tyler."

"Just take it easy." He arches his back, making it look somehow defiant.

Martin moves as slowly and carefully as he can, trying to let Tyler get used to the feeling. Tyler's cock has softened, and he's biting his lip while his hand balls into a fist against Martin's arm. The sound Tyler makes seems more like a whimper than anything, and he hisses as Martin goes as deep as he can again. 

"I'm gonna stop," Martin says, but Tyler uncurls his fingers and digs into flesh when Martin starts to pull out.

He says, eyes opening, "No, no. No, don't."

"It's fine if you don't like it," Martin says. "We can do something else."

"No, keep going." Tyler's grip pulses once, twice, like added encouragement. "It's getting better."

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes. I can do it. Let me take it."

It makes Martin think, incongruously, of overhearing Tyler tell Stevens that he can go to the tough areas. He'll work on getting down low in their end and winning the battles. Don't shelter him. He can learn. 

"Alright, tell me if you want --"

"I just want you to fuck me," Tyler says.

Martin does, still taking it easy on him. He thrusts in and out cautiously, brushing a hand over Tyler's cock the first time he groans and it sounds satisfied. He can tell Tyler's getting past any discomfort when he starts to harden again and tries to meet Martin's thrusts.

"Yeah," he breathes as Martin strokes him, swiping his thumb across the head. "Yeah, Jonesy."

Tyler shifts tracks gradually, going from tentative to bossy, telling Martin to thrust harder, like he's gone from weathering the stretch to chasing it. He tries to lift onto his elbows and sit up, but Martin's cock slips out. Tyler doesn't seem deterred, saying, "C'mere, c'mere," and groaning contentedly when Martin kisses him. It's wet but not quite sloppy, Martin feeling around without looking until he tilts Tyler back enough to get two fingers in him again and Tyler yelps against his mouth.

"Fuck! Oh, wait, Christ --"

"You should turn over," Martin says. "It's a little easier."

"Yeah, okay."

Tyler does, ass up while the rest of him melts into the bed. He keens when Martin slides in again, restarting. Every few thrusts Tyler clenches reflexively, pleasure spiking low in Martin when he does. 

Martin comes first, bending in to brace against the wave of it and then breathing against Tyler's back. He can see Tyler smile, head turned to the side and lips in a closed-mouth grin.

"Hey," Martin says, pushing Tyler on his back. He kneels on the floor as Tyler catches on, dragging him to the edge of the bed. Martin's quiet as he sucks him off, but he delights in all the sounds coming from above until Tyler finishes too. 

He spits in the trashcan and discards the used condom right after. Tyler makes room for him on the bed, slipping a leg in between Martin's and humming tunelessly, spent. 

"Why now?" Martin asks.

"Fingers kind of count. I'd done that, obviously," Tyler says, not bothering to act like he doesn't know what Martin's asking. "Taylore was the first one to do that. She wanted to see what it felt like, and I don't mind. Found out I liked it."

"But then you never tried with," Martin starts, but he doesn't want to start naming names. What about Neiller? What about Kozy? What about Carts? Each name flits through his mind, but it feels silly to ask about assumptions. 

"Didn't want to then. Now I wanted to," Tyler says. The conciseness of it has Martin at a loss, hesitating long enough that Tyler clears his throat to add more. "And I figured you'd know what you were doing. Responsible."

Snorting, Martin says, "The boy scout of fucking."

"Not like that. You know, you were good at other stuff we did," Tyler says. "Thought you'd probably be good at this."

"Was it?"

That grins comes back, toothy this time. Tyler eliminates the space between them and kisses Martin, muttering, "You're a winner." 

"You're so corny." Martin turns his face away, suddenly aware of how comfortable this is -- bad jokes and afterglow. Jesus, he came back in the middle of hanging out for the evening specifically for Tyler. 

As hard to shake as ever, Tyler just climbs over Martin and falls on his other side, looking him in the eye.

"Next time I'll be used to it already," Tyler says, reaching down to brush his hand over Martin's soft cock. "It'll be even better."

Fuck.

"We'll see," Martin says, trying to play it off with a smirk.

"Don't doubt," Tyler says, baited by it. "Next time, be ready."

;;

Next time doesn't come. 

They go down 5-2 against Dallas at home Monday night. The combination of a short Christmas break starting and his winning record before tonight means everybody's so nice to him about the loss that Martin isn't sure how to process any of it.

"Are you flying up north?" Stolly asks as Martin's packing up his gear. They're on the road right after the holiday.

"Yeah, for a quick turnaround."

His brother and sister are both going to be around, too. It's a fast trip, like a lot of the other guys on the team, but he's glad for it.

"What about you, Toff?" Stolly asks, jabbing Tyler's arm. 

Tyler says, "My family's coming here. They want the warmer look this year."

"No juice benders in the future," Stolly says, ribbing him. The LA guys are now also too familiar with Tyler's penchant for drowning in cans of cran-apple on flights like it's a treat, as if he can't just buy a bottle from the grocery store.

"Yeah, so get one in my honor. It's special."

"No, thanks," Stolly says. "But, hey, have your family bring you some. And I bet it'll be good to have the extra hands to help you set up your new place, too."

"That's really why he convinced them to come out here," Marty says, chiming in. "Can't believe they fell for it."

"I can't help it if they love me," Tyler says, smiling about it. He glances at Martin, and he briefly wonders if it would be even stranger to talk to Tyler's parents now. Probably.

Martin makes it to Vancouver with no problem and appreciates not talking hockey for much of it. It's nice not to have to worry about when he'll be moved, if he'll ever get called back up, or Tyler or any of it, but the couple days go by so quickly that he doesn't even have time to settle into relaxing.

The losing sticks around, too. Scrivens gets the start in Nashville, but Martin gets his own taste of losing to Chicago after that. Dallas gets the best of them again on New Year's Eve, but most of them have a few drinks once they get to St. Louis anyway, toasting Carts and ready to ring in the new year. 

Richie makes Carts get on his knees to pour a shot in his mouth right at midnight. Everyone cheers and claps for him, and four-game losing streak or not, Martin can't stop marveling at how different everything is from the last time the calendar year turned. Maybe the beers he'd had are contributing to his contentment, but it doesn't matter. He feels good, standing around in this room with these guys. 

He even feels okay when a bunch of them cram into the hotel elevator an hour later. Williams is pressed into one side and Tyler's on the other, all backed into the wall as the doors close. Martin's not drunk in the slightest, but he still sneaks his hand beneath Tyler's blazer, dragging it back and forth across his lower back.

Two weeks of fooling around, and now a week of losing and doing nothing. Martin's not expecting -- he's not sure what he's expecting, but Tyler rocking back on his heels, pressing into the touch feels like the best possible outcome. 

The player rooms are scattered across a couple separate floors. Half of the gang exits on one floor, and as the other half start to get out two floors later, Tyler says, "We're gonna check out the roof. There's a patio up there, right?"

"Oh, okay," Clifford says and takes his hand away from holding the door open. "Yeah, this is the one with that lounge area up top. Cold out, though."

"Good, I need air." 

Tyler says it so casually that Martin almost believes it's the truth. The elevator shuts again, and Tyler moves in front of him, pulling Martin down to reach his mouth. 

They skip nice, Tyler sliding their tongues together. Neither he nor Martin presses a button, riding to wherever. They do reach the highest floor, but it's only a technicality, the elevator letting in three women who are all obviously tipsy and laughing together. 

Tyler moves away, leaning against one of the side walls. Martin sees him lick his lips. He tries to look down at his shoes, but he keeps cutting his eyes over to Tyler, catching Tyler doing the same until something about it is inexplicably funny. 

The women reach their floor and vacate, and he and Tyler don't move. Instead, Tyler reaches out to punch the floor numbers for the team and says, "You were really good against Chicago."

"Still lost."

"Would've had a chance if we'd managed to score anything," Tyler says.

Martin sighs. "Too bad."

"Yeah. Too bad," Tyler says, his expression almost more wistful than disappointed. The elevator stops. He runs a hand through his hair, doing nothing useful for it and pushes off the wall. "Happy New Year, Joner. 'Night." 

"Sleep well."

Martin drops his head back and stares at the ceiling when he's alone, wondering what might've happened if he'd followed.

;;

The team's shut out again, this time versus the Blues, officially going 0 for 4 on the road trip. Five straight losses and hardly any goals scored. The only bright side is that they get to board a plane headed west after regulation ends.

Getting pulled mid-game has Martin feeling restless and frustrated. On the bench, Payne had said, "Trying to wake these guys up, Jonesy. You're all right," reassuring him, but two power-play goals against on 14 shots still isn't _good_ either.

Everyone's off right now and unsure how to shake it. While Lewie and Mitchell play cards near him, Martin lifts in his seat a moment and looks toward Tyler's. He can see the top of his head, but not much else. It doesn't look like Fraz is sitting in the seat beside him like he has been the last few flights. Martin wonders whether anyone would notice if he went and dropped down next to Tyler, how much they could get away with. 

"What are you looking for?" Lewie asks.

"Nothing," Martin says, settling back in his seat.

"Do you want in on this next hand?" Mitchell asks, and Martin nods. 

"Sure."

The good news when they get home is that Quickie's ready. 

He practices on Friday. Martin's happy to have him part of the full team session. Quickie looks comfortable, no signs of pain, and that means Martin gets the extra work with Fraz and Greener. He spends the entire time in the dressing room after leaving the ice in anticipation of coach giving him the inevitable news.

The word doesn't come until the morning, Darryl catching him outside of the locker room and asking, "You ready to go in case he needs you?"

"In case -- you mean Quickie?"

"Who else would I mean?" Darryl says, curving his mouth slightly upward in a way that probably means Martin's the butt of a joke.

"Uh, yeah," Martin says. "I'm ready." 

Darryl thumps a hand against Martin's back. "Good. Need to be sure those new calf legs can get across the whole field."

"Right."

It's strange how unique the experience feels at game time. He's already seen a few wins in Staples Center. He watched Quickie in net during the Final a year and a half ago, too, fully dressed but the third-string with no chance of getting in the game. This is the first time things have settled how he imagined it might go, eyes on Quickie from the end of the bench while wearing black and silver. 

Martin can sense the nervousness in the whole building until Quickie drops into the splits to make a save in tight. Applause and cheers from the fans steal Martin's attention, taking a fast survey of the arena. It takes until the third period, but they score three unanswered goals to snap the losing streak.

He makes his way onto the ice after the clock runs down, getting to Quickie last. Martin taps his helmet with his glove and says, "Guess we just needed you to come in and fix things."

"It's luck until you repeat it," he says, the two of them coasting back to the bench.

Management has kept all three goaltenders on for the night, as a precaution, but when Quickie tells the trainers he still feels 100 percent, Martin knows tonight is it, probably. 

It's hard to be completely disappointed when he can see it coming. While he showers, he starts making a checklist of things he can't forget to bring with him.

He cleans his hotel room and gets his bags together. Once the transactions are made, travel usually happens pretty fast. It's better to be prepared.

He's lying in bed, hoping he gets an aisle seat on the plane when his cell rings on the nightstand. The caller ID shows Tyler's face. Martin answers.

"Hey."

"Were you sleeping?" Tyler asks. 

"Not really," Martin says. "Trying to, but --"

"Can't sleep either. Ocean sounds not getting it done tonight."

"Are you in the new place for good?" 

He's heard Tyler talking about it some with other guys but hasn't taken a moment to ask Tyler on his own.

Tyler says, "Yep. My parents brought more of my clothes while they were here. Checked out of the hotel for the last time and everything."

"You like it so far?"

"Yeah," Tyler says, voice sort of hushed. "Bored right now, but it's okay. Good overall."

"That's cool."

The other end goes quiet for a while. Martin's content to wait, holding his hand above him and watching the shadows from city lights coming through the window play on his skin. 

Tyler asks, "Do you think you're going back tomorrow?"

Martin drops his hand to his stomach. "I don't see a way around it." 

"Sucks." Tyler sniffs. "Thought we'd get to try again."

That's the issue with hook-ups predicated on winning. Martin says, "Guess not." 

"I bought something. To use on myself, I mean. So I'd be ready. You wouldn't have to go slow."

That's unexpected. "You practiced?"

"Makes perfect," Tyler says cheekily and sighs another time. 

Martin flexes his fingers against his belly. "Where's your hand?" 

"On the sheets, but," Tyler says, "I was kicking my shorts off. Thinking jerking off might help me sleep."

"You're naked."

"Still in a shirt."

Martin moves against the headboard so he's not lying flat anymore. He says, "Do it. Touch yourself." 

Tyler exhales audibly, long and deep, and it's crazy how one soft sound makes Martin's cock stir. He lays his hand over his boxer briefs, pressing the heel of his hand down.

"You should come over," Tyler suggests. "We won tonight."

True, but Martin didn't play a second of that game. He can't start bending the rules now, not if he expects to get on a plane tomorrow and get back to real life. He says, "You'd finish before I even got there."

"I can wait," Tyler says. "I could go again."

"Just tell me what you're doing," Martin says, rubbing his cock idly and half-smiling at the breathiness in Tyler's voice.

"I'm using my hand, like you said. Slow."

"Taking your time?"

"Still kind of hoping you'll come," Tyler says. 

Martin's laugh is airy. He says, "Kind of already working on it."

"Yeah?" Tyler asks, and when Martin confirms, he groans. "Ah, fuck, yes." 

They fail to keep it together enough to really be great phone sex, instead listening to each other breathe and moan with their hands between their legs. Martin speeds up as he goes, trying to match Tyler's cues. 

"I thought about fucking you on the plane," Martin says. Tyler gasps.

"We couldn't," he says. 

"Maybe in the bathroom," Martin says, squeezing his cock as he thinks about it. "Your hands on the wall. Me behind you." 

"You'd have to cover my mouth," Tyler says. "They'd hear me."

"I might want them to. You don't know."

"That's not fair." Tyler whines about it, and Martin imagines him doing the same with them all crammed together in the lavatory, tucking sounds in Martin's palm. 

"You could bite my hand -- my fingers. I'd fuck you hard enough that you'd need something extra." Martin reaches lower to cup his balls, massaging, and he adds a twist when his fingers come higher to grip his cock again. "They'd know anyway. No way they wouldn't see us go in or come back. As quiet as we try to be, it's not enough, and they'd know how bad you want it now."

"Because you make it good," Tyler says. "Fuck, Joner, I'm --"

"I'd drag it out," Martin says, feeling close, too. "When you're right there, I'd slow down, pull all the way out and then fuck into you fast. I want to make you come from just me inside you."

Tyler groans, low and long. Martin jerks off faster, trying to chase after him. He comes all over his hand, stomach, and underwear. He wipes his hand on his t-shirt and wishes he had driven to Tyler's house, curious about what he looks like right now, if he looks just as happily wrecked when it's only his own hand. 

"Joner?" Tyler asks after a minute.

"Yeah." Martin slides down on the sheets and switches hands to talk to Tyler. His left is clammy from holding the cell. "I'm here."

Tyler hums contentedly but doesn't say anything else for a long time. Martin hangs on, feeling drowsier the longer he does. He sort of wants to wait Tyler out more, but fatigue has started to best him, and forcing consciousness isn't going to stop tomorrow from happening. 

He says, "Think you can get to sleep now?"

"Um. Yeah," Tyler says. He sighs. "See you tomorrow."

Martin doubts he will. He expects to be checked-in for a flight by the early afternoon at the latest.

"Yeah, tomorrow," he says and ends the call. 

;;

Arriving at his place in New Hampshire feels like coming home. There's no comfort in it. Martin sets his bags down in the living room and calls his parents, letting them know he's made it back safely. 

"Are you glad to have access to all your things again?" his mom asks. 

"It's good," he says. It's fine. The relief at not living out of his suitcase with a much more limited amount of clothing probably won't last long. 

"Time to fold up the shorts and get out the gloves again for a while."

"Yeah, I have to readjust. But there's a break in the schedule here," he says. 

They catch up for half an hour. After she's gone, Martin looks through texts he hasn't bothered to answer yet. Once he's figured out which of the guys he's meeting for food tomorrow, he clicks into his conversation thread with Tyler and lingers. They don't usually message each other much. Martin's had an itch under the skin all day even though he knows it doesn't matter if he says nothing at all.

"You should call me again tonight," he types and then lets his thumb hover over the screen a minute. He deletes the sentence. 

"Six hours of apple juice all the way back east," he tries on for the second attempt and sends that instead. 

Berube starts for the Monarchs that night. Martin sits in the press box, trying to shake the out of place feeling in a building he knows well. During the first intermission he gets a text from Tyler.

"Haha hope that means you pounded at least a 6pk worth"

"All in a row," Martin sends back. He slept through most of the flight, but Tyler's random addiction to canned fake juice crossed his mind. After a beat, he adds, "Weird being back."

"Yea that doesn't go away," Tyler writes. 

He doesn't remember hearing Tyler talk about it last season, but it makes sense that he might not even if things were strange. There was no one to relate anyway. 

The Monarchs don't play again until the following weekend, so outside of practices, Martin has time to unwind. He spends time around Bods and Soupy, hearing about what he's missed and hasn't been able to keep tabs on so well while traveling with the Kings. 

Neiller invites him over to veg and play video games. When Martin gets to his apartment, he opens the door and walks back to a few boxes near the mouth of the kitchen area. 

"Are you moving spots?" Martin asks, toeing off his shoes by the door. 

Neiller says, "This is Toffee's shit. He asked me to send some stuff since he's not sure when he'll be back to get it." 

"And you're doing it?"

"I'm responsible and kind, what can I say?" Neiller takes a bow with a flourish of his hand, and then reaches for Sharpie on the floor, writing "Misc Crappoli" on the side of one the boxes. 

"That new house'll be all set in no time."

"Yeah, I'm a bachelor again," Neiller says. "You were out there. Did you see his new house? Don't tell me if it's beachfront. That'll kill me."

Half-smiling, Martin says, "Not quite."

Neiller places a hand to his heart like he's been stabbed. 

"I only saw it once," Martin says, "before he even moved in, so I don't know what it's like now."

It's probably better that way, he told himself as he rode to the airport. He's already got the memory of hearing Tyler on the phone late at night, suggesting he come by. Knowing exactly how to picture him there would probably make it even tougher not to mentally replay it over and over.

"Probably a lot of junk still in boxes. It took him forever to unpack here." Neiller tapes the top of the box and gestures toward the living room. "Alright, ordering pizza and kicking your ass on my Xbox, let's do this."

Martin enjoys the company until he starts dozing off on Neiller's couch. Around midnight, Neiller grabs Martin's shoulder, jostles him, and says, "Hey, you're passing out, man. You can crash in Ty's bed if you want."

"No, I'm alright." 

Martin rubs at his eyes and tries to focus on the television. Neiller snorts and shakes his head, but Martin keeps fighting his way through the fog until he can get up and head out. The last thing he needs is to lie in Tyler's bedroom, the environment encouraging him to overthink everything.

He goes home and runs a bunch of errands on Thursday. His schedule's pretty empty for the day and practice doesn't start until the early afternoon Friday, so he stays awake to watch the Kings play the Bruins. Netting four goals is huge for how the team's started to struggle. 

Tyler plays the whole game in spite of getting kneed early on. Martin texts him anyway, asking, "Did Paille kill your leg?'

Eventually, Tyler sends back a picture of an ice-pack on his thigh and a frowny emoticon. 

"Bruised?" Martin asks. 

"Even the skin's black and purple. Kings all over," Tyler sends back.

An hour later, Martin's phone rings. Tyler greets him by saying, "We won, and I got banged around, and you're not here to blow me." 

"Hello, Ty. Yeah, I'm doing alright," Martin says, laughing. God. "I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you're alone." 

"Just me and my quiet house again."

"Does your thigh hurt?" 

"Mm-mm, not really. Just annoying," Tyler says, but he groans behind it. "Martin, come on, I'm bored." 

This is what he gets for setting a precedent. They're not even playing on the same team anymore, but Martin's hand drifts lower anyway. Tyler could probably find someone there. It probably wouldn't be that tough for him to hook up -- never seemed like it was before, but Martin doesn't want him to hang up either.

Twice is a coincidence, but three times is a trend. He gets off with Tyler on Thursday night, and then they repeat it when Martin's in net for the Monarchs 4-1 win over Bridgeport. Both teams lose Saturday, but Martin's looking forward to Tyler's call after the Monarchs best Providence Sunday.

He shouldn't get used to this. He's held that as a mantra for weeks now, but coming with his hand on his cock and Tyler's keyed up moans in his ears four out of five nights suggests he's been bad about taking his own advice. That Tuesday morning drags without the potential of an evening victory only drives the point home.

O'Neill and Bods pick him up to go to see a movie, and as Martin ducks in the backseat, Bods is saying, "He probably won't be up here for long anyway."

"Hey, Joner," Neiller says quickly and turns back to Bodnarchuk. "Maybe, but I just packed all that shit. Wasted effort, and I didn't even make him pay me."

Martin buckles his seatbelt. "What happened?"

"Ty's coming back," Bods says, looking over his shoulder before he pulls out into the street. "Neiller, you should have him buy you dinner."

"Something nice, too."

"Fancy fish place."

"They sent him down?" Martin asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket to try to bring up a news item.

Neiller says, "He texted me to say not to give his bed to anybody yet."

Martin doesn't have any messages from anyone about it. He doesn't even have anything from Tyler. He listens to Bods and O'Neill chatter back and forth about what Neiller should request as packing payment, phone balanced on his thigh. Pears is already with the Kings again. Martin didn't really even get a chance to see him before he left, and Pears is good at what he does, but everybody had figured Tyler was a lock whenever he got the call again. What else does surviving through the conference final guarantee if not a roster spot?

The restaurant they choose is one of Martin's favorites in town, but he's distracted throughout the meal. He doesn't text Tyler until Neiller gets up to use the bathroom.

"Heard I should be looking forward to you," he writes, debates whether to send for a few seconds, and then does anyway. Martin doesn't really blame him for not answering, and he also figures Tyler might not want sympathy, so he leaves it at that. 

;;

Wednesday, Scrivens gets traded. 

"Holy shit, that has to mean they're calling you back already, right?" Andreoff says, snapping a towel at Martin's legs. Practice starts in fifteen minutes, and Martin's head was focused in for it until thirty seconds ago.

Martin swats at him, watching the TV in the lounge area and trying to hear what they're saying. "I don't know."

"Has to be," Kozy says. "Otherwise they don't have a goaltender." 

"They could trade for someone else." 

"They won't," Andreoff says. 

He doesn't get word until after they get off the ice for the afternoon. Morris says, "Jonesy, hold on," and catches him at the shoulder. "Did you see the news about Scrivens at all?"

"Right before we started." 

Morris nods. "Then I hope you didn't get too comfortable here. You have a flight in three hours."

"I'll get ready."

"Might want to bring some extras this time," Morris says, a small smile spreading across his mouth. "We don't expect you back any time soon." Martin shakes his head, trying to reconcile what he's hearing. The cold of the rink is starting to seep in, and Morris's smile grows. "You deserve it, Martin."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. You showed Deano what he wanted to see," Morris says and starts toward the exit. "Good luck."

"Everybody can use a little," Martin says and goes to get changed. 

Protective gear, skates, sticks. Clothes, shoes, bathroom crap. Martin's so focused on making sure he takes everything he needs that he doesn't have a moment to remember that Tyler's coming to New Hampshire until he's almost ready to leave his place. 

Shit. 

He pulls out his phone as he's walking out and just types, "Fucked timing." 

It's inadequate, he thinks, but safe. An acknowledgment. He's not expecting a response. Tyler's probably in the air already. 

Martin makes his flight and orders a can of cran-apple juice. He takes a picture and saves it.

;;

"Ehhh, Jonesy!"

"Look who it is."

"Knew they wouldn't let you stay away."

He gets welcomes from a bunch of the guys at morning skate in St. Louis, including Marty coming over and running his hand over Martin's hair and saying, "I didn't even have time to miss this face yet. Now you're here to stay a while. Watch out, LA."

"And compete with how you look? Not a chance," Martin says. 

"Well, _I_ know," Marty says. "I'm trying to be nice."

Pears falls into step with him as they head onto the ice. He says, "Welcome back. I thought I was gonna be alone for a second." 

"You could handle it," Martin says, elbowing him companionably. "But, yeah, here again. I assume they'll put me back in that hotel when this road trip is over. What floor are you on now?"

Pears shakes his head. "Nah, I'm at Ty's in LA. He gave me the second bedroom, and I guess now it's kind of good. I can keep an eye on the house."

"Have you talked to him?" Martin asks, grabbing a water bottle and gliding toward the crease opposite Quickie. Pears trails him.

"Ty? A little bit. Just saying he made it to Manch."

Martin hasn't heard anything from Tyler. No call, no text -- nothing. "They're probably throwing him right into the game tomorrow."

"Yeah, and they play all weekend, so at least he won't be sitting around."

Right. Martin puts it out of his mind and focuses on switching his brain back to Darryl's system. The Kings beat St. Louis 4-1 to finally earn two consecutive wins for the first time since before Christmas.

Quickie had the start, but Martin still calls Tyler's phone once he's eaten and ready to lounge for the rest of the night. The line rings until the voicemail answers. Martin doesn't leave a message. 

It continues like that. He texts Tyler once Friday and again Saturday morning -- nothing important, just an idle question about what he thinks it'll take for Southern California to finally get Tim Hortons now that it's even made its way into Detroit. 

After the bizarre shootout loss to the Red Wings, the locker room's more somber than in St. Louis. No one's stringing too many words together in a row, but Pears nudges his arm halfway through changing and says, "Ty got the hatty tonight."

"Who got a hatty?" Fraz asks, overhearing. 

"Toffee," Pears says. "Natural hat trick in the Manch game. He texted me."

"Hey, nicely done." Fraz finishes buttoning up his shirt. "Could've used a few of those here." 

Martin digs through his bag for his phone while they get absorbed in conversation. He looks up the score for the Monarchs game and then types out a quick text to Tyler, writing, "Winning 3-0 wouldn't have been good enough?"

He sends a quick message to Berube, too, congratulating him on the shutout. Berube's responded by the time Martin gets on the plane, checking his phone before they take off. 

Right before he turns off his phone, Martin sends one more message: "So what does a hatty get you?"

A reply isn't waiting for him when he powers the cell on again in Boston.

The Monarchs have the tables turned on them Monday. St. John's shuts them out 2-0, and the Kings drop the first night of their back-to-back at almost the same time. Darryl taps Martin for the game against the Blue Jackets. They score three goals despite fatigue, but Martin feels unsteady in net all night. It shows in the scoreboard. Going down 5-3 means another plane ride west tinted by defeat.

He's almost grateful. Having something to think about other than what's been distracting him for longer than he likes nearly feels like a plus.

;;

Martin's beyond excited to check into his hotel room in LA, flop onto the bed, and crash. It's the most perfect room in the world until he wakes. Being in LA with no looming return date is fantastic, but he looks around at the generic wallpaper and can't wait to be past spending time in this building, now that it's an option. 

He puts in a couple calls to real estate agents teammates have suggested. 

"When are you hoping to view rentals, Mr. Jones?"

"Today, if possible."

One agent has time to fit him in. Martin sets a time to connect with her, and then dials Muzzin. 

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Martin," he says. "Are you busy today?"

"Not really."

"Do you mind taking me to look at some houses in your area? I can rent a car if you can't, but I thought --"

"It's cool. When?"

"Two hours?"

"Alright. I'll get you."

It's gorgeous outside, which usually seems to be the case in LA. Martin wears sunglasses and takes off his hoodie before they've even made it three blocks from the hotel. 

Johnna is the agent showing him around. She's wearing slacks and a scarf, and Martin has no idea how she's not dying of heat exhaustion, but she's nice enough.

"Bud, this one doesn't even have a place for a grill," Muzzin's saying when his phone buzzes in his hand. It's only the second stop on the list today, but the lack of rooftop patio is already a deal breaker for him.

Martin says, "If everybody else has a grill, then maybe I don't need one." 

"Are you serious? Dude, no," Muzz says, rolling his eyes. He looks down at his phone screen. "Fuck, yeah. Ty's coming."

"What?" That doesn't make sense, considering Tyler's in Manchester. 

"Toff. He got recalled."

Muzz holds out his phone for Martin to see.

"Oh, yeah."

"I told you everyone finds their way back. The whole gang's almost back together," Muzz says, dusting off his shoulder. "Don't doubt my smarts on these things."

"Fuck," Martin says. 

"It's okay, Joner. Being a doubter worked out in your favor." Muzz taps his back in mock sympathy, and Martin can't stop thinking about how awkward this could get. 

He says, "No, I -- I think stuff might be weird with me and Ty."

"Why?"

"We kind of --" Martin shoves his hand in his pockets. "I hooked up with him."

Muzzin's jaw drops and closes a couple times. He looks like a guppy. "Dude."

"Once or twice," Martin says. 

"More than _once_?"

Martin winces. "A few times."

"Jones!"

Johnna comes back into the room and says, "So what do you think of this one?"

Muzz says, "We just need a second. I'm sorry, he has some opinions on, um, crown-molding. Can you give us a couple minutes?"

She gives him a highly skeptical look, mouth twisting softly but nods. "I have to call another client back. I'll be out front, alright?"

"Perfect." Muzzin jabs Martin in the bicep as soon as she's gone. "When?"

"Ow! What the fuck." Martin rubs the sore spot and says, "Like December."

"All the wannabe models running around this city, and you get in Tyler's pants?" 

"It's not like I planned on it. And guys in Manch have done plenty of stuff like this before."

"That's New Hampshire. Live free or die of boredom or something. Whatever Soupy used to say," Muzz says. "Shit happens. You're supposed to be smarter than most of us."

"Well, maybe not."

"I thought you didn't do random people, anyway."

"I don't," Martin says with more emphasis than he intends. "Tyler's not random. I don't know. After the party at Stolly's, stuff happened, and it wasn't supposed to get weird, but now..."

Muzzin frowns. "What happened?" 

"I'm not sure. He sort of stopped talking to me." 

Shaking his head, Muzz says, "That's why you don't mess around in the locker room."

"You made out with him at that party."

Muzz laughs. "That wasn't what happened at all. You know what it really was, and screw you, because I didn't fuck him afterward."

"Lower your volume." Martin glances around. "That nice lady trying to find somewhere for me to live doesn't need to know all of my business."

"She probably already thinks we're dating and in here arguing about how big the bedroom is or something," Muzz says, heading into the living room. 

"You do hate the roof."

"What's the point if you can't have a party up top?" Muzz reaches the front door first and stops, holding his hand flat against it when Martin reaches for the handle. "Unh-uh, hold on. Is that why you asked about Toffee and Carts?" 

He could deny it, but outright lying isn't typically what Martin likes to rely on. He says, "I was wondering."

"Wait, fuck that, no. You're into him," Muzzin says, not quite managing to phrase it like a question. His face brightens the longer Martin takes to answer.

"It's casual."

"No, it's not." Pointing a finger at him, Muzz says, "Don't try that blank face shit with me. I should've known. You're _so_ bad at hook-ups or buddies."

"Muzz."

"Joner." Muzzin's grinning like the Cheshire Cat as he finally pulls open the front door. "Fucking Tyler. There are millions of people in LA, Jonesy. I'm not lying. Millions." 

"Forget I told you."

"No way." As soon as he gets down the few steps leading down from the short front patio, Muzz turns backwards to face Martin as he moves out onto the sidewalk. "Just fucking talk to him, man. It's only Tyler." He spins around and heads toward Johnna, who's standing near the street corner, looking at her phone. "Excuse me, are there any places with a bigger roof deck that we can see?"

;;

Neither of their next two games against Anaheim are at Staples Center, but being the only away team within easy driving distance means they still get to sleep in their own homes. They have a quick skate at TSC before getting on the bus. That's the first Martin sees of Tyler, trying to keep his shoulders square as the shooters run drills. 

He's used to messing with everyone in net, especially Pears and Tyler, hooking at their feet or pushing them out of the crease. Trying to trip them up is fun, but he focuses on seeing around Tyler when it's his turn be the screen, keeping it clean.

"What is this? You go easy on him, but I almost get laid out," Pears says as he skates by.

Tyler turns his head, glancing back at Martin. He half-smiles and says, "He's not the first goalie I've made too nervous to get fancy."

Martin does use his stick on him for that, slashing at Tyler's feet after he tries a tip-in. Tyler stumbles, and Clifford and Pears laugh.

"Watch yourself, Jones," Tyler says, mock threatening. 

Martin says, "Don't forget who's bigger just because I'm low in this net."

Drills and rushes go more smoothly from there. 

There's less joking than usual, but Martin chalks that up to larger issues. Everyone's playing around less lately, trying to bear down to reverse the scoring slump and play to win against the Ducks in the Stadium Series. He stays on for extra work with guys that need it and leaves the ice last.

"When do we get on the ice at Dodgers?" Frattin asks in the locker room.

"Tomorrow," Brown says. "Game tonight, and then practice in all the new gear and family skate and everything." 

"Have you seen the pictures?" Martin asks.

Frattin's pulling his tie around his neck as he says, "Yeah, that's why I'm ready anxious to get out there. I want to see it."

"I was trying to get my mom and dad to come back out for it," Tyler says. 

"Aww, they can't?"

"They were gonna try, but then when I went back to Manch, we weren't even sure if I'd be in LA or with the Monarchs."

"My parents can't either, and my brother and sister both have stuff going on," Martin says, unhooking his leg pads and setting them aside. 

Tyler runs a towel over his hair and across his neck. He whips it out toward Martin, not quite close enough to connect. "We'll be the odd, lonely guys out." 

Tyler's scratched that night, and Martin's watching from the bench like normal. Throwing 31 shots on net isn't enough to get it done, the Ducks taking the Stadium Series preview 2-1. 

This one's somewhat easier to let roll off their backs, too excited to see the Dodgers Stadium stage all set for the outdoor head-to-head. They have a later practice, waiting for the sun to drop west enough that it doesn't glare right off the ice once the rink uncovered. The Kings Vision crew hook a GoPro camera to the top of Martin's helmet and ask Tyler to help keep an eye on it since they'll both be on for extra work again rather than taking rushes for the game the next evening. 

Martin gets some shit from his teammates, every skater on the ice aiming to hit the camera. No one really hits the target dead on, and Martin even stones Tyler on a great snap shot from the slot.

"That was fucking perfect," Martin says as Tyler's momentum carries him wide and back around again. "Oh, I hope the camera caught that."

"Alright, alright, let it go. Lucky save."

"That was all skill."

It's almost like the week or so of radio silence never happened, Tyler smiling and bumping into Martin to knock him off his game. Everything's so regular that Martin starts to feel strange about worrying about that week at all. Maybe it was nothing. The team hasn't been winning, so there's nothing to say about it now, and he tries to enjoy prepping for a hockey game in the middle of a baseball field.

The night's still warm enough after practice that skating around in a t-shirt and light jacket is completely comfortable. He helps Williams' son do laps around the rink that turns into a race when Tyler swoops past and shouts, "You're gonna let me beat you guys? Sad, Joner, sad!"

It's fun. The whole thing is even more fun than he thought it might be. Martin hadn't bothered to imagine he'd be around for anything like this, assuming he'd probably spend at least one of his two extension years in Manchester again.

He ends up backed against the boards towards the end of the evening, talking with Evans about the media skate the night before. Tyler rattles the glass as he glides in and tip towards Martin, bumping his arm. 

"Are you two worn out already?" he asks. 

"No, did you know reporters played shinny here the other night?" Martin says. 

"Really? Did your team win, Daryl?"

Evans repeats himself so that Tyler can hear about it. He talks until one of the PR guys pulls him away and leaves the two of them watching stragglers twist around the ice slowly. 

"This is cool. I'm so glad I got to come back for it," Tyler says, scanning the scene carefully like he's trying to take a mental panorama shot. 

"Did Dean or Blakey say anything when you got recalled?" 

Tyler presses his mouth together and shrugs. The motion brings his arm closer, the back of his hand brushing Martin's knuckles. He says, "Not really. When I got sent down, he said to stay focused, and they'd bring me back, but you know how it is." 

No one ever fully knows what the decisions will be until they happen. Tyler's hat trick probably proved that he doesn't really need the AHL for his own development anymore, but "probably" doesn't guarantee anything. 

"Would be even cooler to play in this," Martin says. 

"Yeah." Tyler nods and shifts on his skates slightly, hand still brushing the backs of Martin's fingers. "I hope our side wins tomorrow." 

Martin looks down between them, and then up to Tyler's face. He's still watching the ice, surprisingly neutral enough in his expression that Martin isn't sure if he means for that to sound loaded. 

"Me too," Martin says.

Tyler turns to smile at him, gliding away from the wall. He says, "Three laps. Bet I'm faster," and powers off.

"Cheating already?" Martin calls. 

"You've got longer legs! It's fair. Let's go, slowpoke."

;;

The shittiest part about getting shut out at Dodgers Stadium is not knowing what the goal horn sounds like with four times the fans there. Martin dresses quickly just to get out of the locker room as fast as possible, away from the silent frustration of sharing the blame. It feels thicker tonight, under the weight of balancing something that was supposed to be an event and another chance to gain ground in the standings at the same time.

It's lame to escape, but it feels necessary tonight. Martin walks out in the hallway, rounds a corner and finds Tyler coming right at him. They collide, stumbling into one another. 

Tyler laughs, pressing his hands into Martin's abdomen and rocking back. Martin catches his forearms to balance him, saying, "Sorry. My fault."

"What mission are you on right now?" 

"Nowh -- nothing, I'm antsy," Martin says. "Did a lot of sitting." 

Tyler says, "Probably didn't look any better from your angle, huh?"

Not in the slightest. "More frustrating, maybe. We had a lot of close calls." 

"Just need to get lucky," Tyler says, an endless wealth of double entendres. Martin's almost impressed with how consistent he is. 

He shakes his head, smirking in spite of the wash this evening has turned out to be. "Something like that."

"Are you leaving already?" 

"Uh, yeah, I guess so." 

He has no reason to stick around longer than needed. They all know where they're supposed to be tomorrow and when they're heading north to start a short road trip. 

Tyler tilts his head back, lips pursed like he's considering saying more. He hesitates, and Martin takes in the whole of him, not for the first time today. Tyler looks good, always partial to a slim-fitting suit over any other option. It's been a long time since he's buzzed his flow, hair long enough now that it curls at his forehead and makes him look softer than he's said he prefers. Martin peeks over his shoulder. He can hear distant steps and voices but nothing in the immediate vicinity, not yet, and Tyler has yet to pull away from his grip. 

"If you want a ride tom --"

Martin kisses him, a solid press of lips, taking advantage of the way the fluorescent lights make the corridor feel more closed off than it really is. Tyler touches gentle fingertips to Martin's chest but acquiesces, and Martin could use just one risk to pay off today. 

They separate as footsteps get closer. Tyler's exhale is visible, chest collapsing as he settles into himself again. 

"You look great," Martin says.

The words seem to daze Tyler until someone laughs, fitting them both back into the real world. Tyler looks around and shifts aside, adjusting his perfectly straight tie.

"Martin," he says. "Someone's -- it's not like they --"

"I know," Martin says. That wasn't the point for him here, for right now but, yeah, he knows. "Yeah, I'm getting out of here." 

He leaves Tyler behind. 

;;

Just when he could finally use a loss to help get back on track, to sweep an impulse under the rug until he and Tyler can both pretend it hadn't happened -- of course that's when the team wins again. 

The game in San Jose is brutal for both teams. Sixty minutes of rough, ugly play, and the only lucky break during the whole night comes off Kopitar's stick. They win 1-0. Quickie tallies the shutout and everybody breathes. 

Phoenix is coming at them the very next night. There's a chance Darryl might want him to pick up the back half, so Martin could keep his head down and give all his thoughts to tomorrow's game, but recent tradition has him aware of Tyler's movements in the locker room like his brain dials in to him instinctively. 

Bus, plane, bus, hotel. Martin enters his hotel room fully drained and drops his things down in the corner armchair. 

A knock comes long after he should be asleep. The alarm clock boasts that he's stayed awake past 2AM, staring at nothing, mind purposefully blank and immediately alert when someone's at his door, because he's been anticipating it since regulation zeroed out. 

Hallway light spills in around Tyler when Martin opens the door. Tyler's gaze flicks down to Martin's boxer briefs before finding his eyes up higher. He stays quiet, sliding his hands in the pockets of his sleep pants, and Martin reaches for his shoulder, pulling him inside.

They don't have to do this. There's hardly a foundation for it at this point. Martin didn't play and Tyler didn't make the point sheet, but he still raises his arms to help Martin get his shirt off. They're still both completely naked by the time they make it to the bed. Tyler sits astride Martin's hips, kissing him, and a small tremor rattles him as Martin skims nails along Tyler's ribs. 

He covers the babble coming from Tyler's mouth when they fuck, sliding inside him and gritting his teeth as Tyler bites at the heart of his hand. This would be simpler with Tyler on his stomach, but he doesn't let Martin get away, clinging as he says, "No, don't stop." Martin replaces his hand with his mouth against Tyler's, trying to absorb the keening with a kiss. Tyler curses against his lips. 

"I'm gonna -- Martin, fuck, fuck, I'm gonna," Tyler pants a while later, as he gets too close, barely any heft to his voice. He sounds overwhelmed, like he's struggling to hold on to something Martin can't decipher. Tyler comes with Martin thrusting in his ass and Martin's hand around his cock, panting in the darkness of the room.

Martin pulls out and jerks off until he stripes come on Tyler's thigh, high enough that when he tosses the condom and drops on top of him, Martin's cock slides along the juncture between leg and pelvis, smearing the mess.

He inches his way closer to Tyler's neck and noses his throat, inhaling the musky smell of him. Tyler hums and wraps an arm around Martin's shoulder, basking in the attention. They lie there until their breaths start to even out. Martin feels pleasantly lethargic, the bliss of it unhappily interrupted as Tyler starts to edge away.

"Quit it," Martin says. "I'm trying to sleep." 

"I've gotta go back."

"Hang out here. Pass out."

"And get caught," Tyler says. 

Martin shakes his head, half against Tyler and partially against a shared pillow. "It's not like anyone else is coming to my room. Stay."

He gropes along Tyler's stomach until he finds his hands, hooking fingers across Tyler's and holding on until he concedes.

;;

Ringing wakes him. Martin rolls away from Tyler to fumble around for his phone, accidentally knocking it off the bedside table and then pawing around the floor.

"Hello."

"Hey, sorry, have you heard from Ty?" Nolan asks.

Martin sits straighter and clears his throat. "You're looking for Tyler?"

Across the mattress, Tyler snaps to attention, too. He throws the sheet off and scrambles out of bed, hissing, "Shit!"

"He's supposed to get breakfast with me and Jake, but Muzz says he didn't answer his phone or his door."

"No, I haven't heard anything," Martin says, watching Tyler skim the floor for his clothes, tugging on his t-shirt and underwear. "He's probably ignoring you. Hard sleeper or something."

"That's what I said," Nolan says. "Muzz thought maybe he went out with some of other guys after we got in last night; fell asleep on somebody's floor. He thought it might've been you or maybe you'd know."

Fucking Muzzin. 

"I've got nothing. Sorry."

"Are you hungry? Want to go with us?"

Martin tries to gather his thoughts. "Okay. Sure, let me just clean myself up. I'll meet you in your room?"

"613."

"Alright. I'll see you in 15."

He drops the phone on the bed as Tyler pulls his pants on and then runs his hands through his hair. "I forgot I told them to wake me," he says, still glancing around the floor.

"Did you lose something?"

"Double-checking."

"They're not coming over here. You can relax," Martin says, reaching forward and patting the bed.

Tyler shakes his head. "I should've left last night."

"They don't know anything," Martin says, which isn't completely true. Muzzin knows some things, but he won't say anything. Not on purpose.

"And they don't need to."

"It's not like it would be the first time." 

"What does that mean?" Tyler asks, brow furrowing.

Martin rubs his eyes and sighs. That wasn't what he meant to say. "You know, just. Guys in Manch heard about you and Kozy."

"Because Andy and Soupy walked in," Tyler says. "It was like -- go with it; laugh it off or be really fucking embarrassed." 

"Then Neiller."

"How do you know about --"

"And Carts, here."

"I never hooked up with Carter," Tyler says and rears his head back. "What, do you have a list of people I've messed around with?"

"No. What? No."

"Then what are you saying?"

"It's not my business how many people there've been, that's --"

"Whoa, how many do you think that is?" Tyler holds his hand up right after, saying, "Actually, don't tell me." He starts to walk off but halts again. "Is that why you hooked up with me?"

"No --"

"I mean, why not? Sounds like I get off with everybody." 

Martin rolls his eyes. "Don't do that. Don't twist my words. I'm saying guys talk shit all the time."

"Not because I --" Tyler says, huffing. "Whatever. I'm going."

"Hey," Martin says, moving after him. Tyler twists the door handle, and Martin pushes it closed again. "Are you mad now?"

Not looking at him, Tyler says, "No. Can I go?"

"Ty."

"I don't care that you're butt naked. I'm about to open this door anyway."

"Why are you pissed?"

"You're right. It's awesome that you've thought of me as a merry-go-round this whole time." 

"That's not what I said."

"I need to go to my room," Tyler says again.

"Why didn't you call me?" Martin asks.

He sees Tyler's confused expression in profile. "What are you talking about?" 

Martin hates the phrasing he's used already, but it's the simplest way he can think to say what he really wants to know, and he's tired of not asking. 

"When you got sent down."

Tyler seems caught off guard in a small, quiet way. He says, shrugging, "Things got hectic."

"I got moved, too. I sent, I don't know, a few different messages."

"I was busy."

"For a text?"

"Are you worried I went back and fucked Neiller?" Tyler asks, nasty.

Martin says, "I just want to know why you blew me off. What was I supposed to think -- other than that you were done? Then you come back like nothing changed, and I wouldn't have noticed. Why'd you stop talking to me?"

"I didn't _want_ to talk to you about it." Tyler's almost stepping on the end of Martin's last sentence, reaching his evasion limit in no real time at all. Good. 

"About what?"

Tyler's exhale is frustrated, but he says, "I was back there, and I hated it. I was supposed to be finished there. Then I felt like shit for thinking that way and being annoyed that you got sent up, and you had your own stuff going on. You didn't complain at all about going back, and then getting recalled was good news for you. I didn't --" He breathes out roughly again. "It's not like we were close like that before."

"So?"

"It's not what we were doing here, and I didn't want to sound like a baby. "

"But what if I want you to?" Martin asks. At Tyler's scowl, he hastens to add, "Not to feel bad, but you can vent to me. What if I want you to feel like you can?"

Tyler glances around the room, like the walls might be able to help him understand. "I didn't need any pity."

Martin runs his tongue against his teeth and inhales. Whatever excuse he gave himself for not clearing things up before doesn't work now that they're both on the roster again, now that it seems like it'll be a while before either one of them goes anywhere else. 

"Ty, I want you," Martin says and lets the sentence hang between them a moment. "Look, I know I probably shouldn't, but I do, so --"

"Why shouldn't you?" Tyler asks, eyes finally turning to Martin's face. The way his frown deepens feels indicative of everything with him, practical but also ready to take anything as a personal challenge when provoked.

"You just said it. I didn't think that was what we were doing either," Martin says, but he also thinks he's been bad at not wanting it to be. "But that's not really -- it's not how I am, usually. Or have been, in the past, and. Truth? I think I really like you."

Tyler just keeps staring at him, but his jaw relaxes. He blinks. "You think."

"I do," Martin says. "And I didn't want to find out it was just me."

Martin watches him fidget, expression wrinkled in thought. Tyler looks down at his hands, and then jerks his head back up just as fast. "You want to be special."

Martin winces, shamefaced. He says, "That's an embarrassing way to put it."

Tyler keeps regarding him silently, working his jaw. Finally, he says, "You said you'd be somewhere in 15 minutes. And I have to go."

Instinct tells him to protest again, but Martin doesn't want to spend more time talking in circles. Fine. "Alright."

When Tyler twists the door handle this time, Martin doesn't stop him.

;;

They lose to the Coyotes that night, shut out for the second time in three games. Nothing about it feels surprising. 

Tyler ignores him in the locker room, holding steady to what he's been doing since he left Martin's hotel room that morning. On the plane, Martin tries to listen to music and nap, but the flight isn't long enough to settle. LA is hot when he steps outside after touchdown, and he slips his suit jacket from his shoulders.

As he gets his luggage, Mitchell says, "Jonesy, do you need a ride to the hotel?"

"No, I can get a cab or something," Martin says. "I'm set."

"I don't mind dropping you."

"I can take him," Tyler says, chiming in. "Pears parked my car here when he went back to Manch. I'll need to drive in that direction anyway."

Martin looks around as Tyler lifts his bag. Mitchell says, "You sure?"

"I, um," Martin stalls, but Tyler doesn't back out. "Yeah. Yeah, it's fine. We've got it covered."

"Okay. Be safe, guys."

"Later," Tyler says. He starts towards the exit and pauses when Martin hasn't moved. "Are you not coming?"

It makes him think back to Tyler in his hotel room, going for a shower and inviting Martin along. This isn't something he'd anticipated becoming a theme -- following after Tyler -- but he does it. He tucks his bag in Tyler's trunk, getting into the passenger seat. He drags his fingers back and forth across the chest of the seatbelt for the whole drive, unsure of what they're doing here. Tyler doesn't tell him either, in no real rush for anything apparently. 

They ride to the hotel without talking. Instead of driving to the front entrance, Tyler pulls over around the corner and parks the car, engine idling. 

"You should find a place now," he says. 

"I've looked at a couple," Martin says. Okay, so they're talking about houses now. "I haven't seen anything I want to sign for yet, but I've got some options to start." He taps the center console in the car. "Is this one yours, or is this another rental?"

"Mine." Tyler leans forward, gripping the steering like he's feeling out it out. "I gave my other one to one of my sisters. She needed a new car anyway, so I decided not to ship it."

"I have to ship mine," Martin says. "Not ready to give it up yet."

"I understand that," Tyler says and goes quiet, staring through the windshield at the SUV sitting in front of them.

"Yeah," Martin says, running out of words.

He watches Tyler drum his hand on the steering wheel, gnawing at his bottom lip while the radio goes. It's a full minute before Tyler says, "I don't want to be a bad idea you had. Like some -- a gamble or risk you take or something." He angles toward Martin, sitting back in his seat and looks at him. "I'm not a risk."

"I don't think you are," Martin says.

"Seems like you might." Tyler flattens his hand against his thigh, pushing it to the knee and slowly down again. He breathes in deep. "I don't hook up with everybody. When I get drunk, I make out with people, but I don't fuck everybody."

"That's not what I was trying to say." He curses under his breath. "That was shitty. I'm sorry."

"You don't think I can do special," Tyler says, speaking over Martin like he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't buy it all.

"It's not only," Martin tries and pauses, rethinking his words. "You were always gonna come to LA. I didn't know if I was gonna get to come back, and starting whatever we were doing while I had this big question mark was probably..." He swallows. "It's weird being really self-aware about fucking up."

"Wow."

"Not like that. It's -- you can hook up with whoever want, but I'm not good at staying casual. And I know that, so starting with you like it was all just part of the games when I know you might do things differently wasn't my best move." Martin drops his head against the seat and sighs. He's not trying to fuck this up, but he's doing it already. He says, "I am sorry, alright? Maybe we shouldn't keep doing this."

"Why not? I can do this."

"You don't have to try to make me special."

"See, that's what I mean," Tyler says. "I'm saying you can be. I want that."

"Are you sure?"

"Please stop making assumptions about what I am!"

Darkness fills the inside of the car, only the faint illumination of the low interior lighting at their feet and on the dashboard offering any real contrast. Still, Tyler looks nervous to Martin but somehow adamant also, and he can imagine this isn't the first time Tyler's had to look someone in the face and dare them to say he's less than what he promises. 

Martin isn't sure if now is the right time to gravitate closer, but he does, leaning across the console and touching Tyler's neck, finding his mouth. The kiss is light, questioning, and Tyler lets him in, trying to meet Martin halfway as his lips part. 

He kisses Tyler until the tension in him dissolves, moaning. He whispers, "You should want me. You can like me," and Martin nods. 

"Too late." 

Tyler laughs a little and drops his head, tucking it under Martin's chin. He says, mostly to Martin's collar, "I didn't want to get caught, because I didn't want have to make you a funny story." 

"Wh--" Martin starts but loses the word, nudging at Tyler to get him to sit up, show his face. He obliges, letting Martin get a look at him with his hand bumping the underside of Tyler's jaw. 

"I just wanted to keep doing it," Tyler says.

A car flipping a U-turn on street cuts white light through the car. Tyler shuts his eyes to it as Martin collapses forward again. Tyler makes a reedy "mmph" sound when Martin kisses him, but he catches on quickly, suddenly so eager for it that Martin thinks he might just climb over to the passenger side with him in a second. 

He breaks off instead and says, "Come to my house." 

Martin can't think of a reason to argue. "You're the one driving." 

;;

The sun washes over Tyler's bed just like they'd tested out a month ago. Martin opens his eyes when he starts to feel too warm to keep still. 

He leaves Tyler there and pulls on his underwear, padding barefoot through the house and into the kitchen. Pears must've restocked the fridge before he flew out, because there's a decent amount of food. Martin smells ingredients to make sure they're fresh and sets out everything to get a couple scrambles going. 

He's plating the eggs when Tyler makes an appearance, holding out Martin's buzzing phone. The caller ID says "Muzz."

"Second time," Tyler says, his voice morning hoarse.

Answering, Martin says, "What's the emergency?"

"I'm coming over, that's what," Muzzin says. "Wake up. Let's get food. Be ready to roll in ten."

"I've been awake," Martin says, turning off the stovetop. "I'm not at the hotel, though."

"Where are you?" 

"Out." Martin leans against the counter and watches Tyler survey the food. He glances at Martin and points to himself, eyebrows raised. Martin nods, and Tyler smiles sleepily.

Muzz says, "Alright, early bird. Where are you? I'll grab you."

"Can I meet you for lunch instead? I'm taking care of something."

"Houses again? Let me tag along."

"No, I'll just catch you later, man. Like one o'clock," Martin says as Tyler kisses his chin gratefully and nudges his side, trying to hurry him. "Maybe two?"

"What secret shit are you--" Muzz pauses, like it's dawning on him. "Tyler's there, isn't he?"

Chuckling, Martin says, "Don't worry about it. And fuck you for the other day, by the way."

"In Phoenix, too? I fucking knew it. Hey, don't kill me, okay? I was gonna call myself to check, but Noly had his phone out," Muzz says. "It's not my fault he beat me to it." 

"That's not an excuse."

"So you talked to him, bud? Are you two like an all-the-time situation now? Don't forget about your friends."

"I'm about to hang up on you."

"I'm serious!"

Tyler reaches for the phone then, sliding it away from Martin to press to his own ear. "Martin's gotta go now. He made me breakfast, and I need to suck him off for it." 

Martin laughs outright as Tyler sets the phone aside. He says, "I'm 99 percent sure he knows now."

"According to you, everybody talks about me anyway," Tyler says. He smiles, close-mouthed and satisfied. "You made eggs."

"I made eggs," Martin confirms and kisses the side of Tyler's face when he wraps his arms around Martin's middle. "You can wait until after you eat to blow me."

"Useful and magnanimous. Messed around and hit the jackpot." Tyler slaps his ass and turns away to dig forks out of a drawer.

"Your game's too lucky, I guess."

"No, all this winning takes hard work. I make it look easy." Tyler wiggles his ass and arches his eyebrow suggestively.

Martin scoffs but says, "Wait, wait. Come here," and kisses Tyler when he pauses for him, something careful and thorough.

Tyler blinks slowly. "What was that for?"

"That's what winners get, isn't it?" Martin says. "New count."

"Oh, my god," Tyler says and laughs. "Good thing you said that. I needed some cheese on this scramble."

"Shut up." Martin pushes at his shoulder and takes his plate off the counter. 

Tyler wrinkles his nose. "Nah," he says and hooks his hands underneath the waistband of Martin's underwear, following him to the living room.


End file.
